This show. I tried to stop watching, but between curiosity and the boredom of covid exhaustion, I returned. The theme, the theme that I am interested in as of late, is that of being ruled by past decisions, past events, and how these decisions replay themselves in our heads, how the replays create the present reality, if we let them. Is it possible not to let them, or is that part of their curse? This series explores that, by looking at the effects of the way-distant past, the past of a shared childhood. Then, on top of this rich soil, it also looks at how the events of the present morph into memory and into a new set of influences. It examines how choices made in a split-second moment, with the information at hand, can then govern the psyche for years to come. Years, lifetimes, generations it seems, from my own experiences. Of course, this makes me consider my own experiences. I think of the split second reactions, actions, that led to the grandes histoires in my own life. These events that take up so much space in my head, my heart, and my personality. We tell ourselves these stories over and over again. When will it end?

When will it end? This is the question that one brother repeats, over and over, as he kills another. When will it end? Never, it seems. Never. One bad memory is replaced by a new set of sins. Negativity bias, once there to protect us from certain death through a healthy fear of danger lurking around us, is now killing us slowly. It’s creating cancer in our bodies and souls, the fear of what might be, because of what had been, growing exponentially, raging through us, until it destroys completely, from the inside. We are our own greatest enemies, we are slaves to a past that we cannot change. We are crippled by it as we limp forward into the future, sure that it will be just as bad as it has ever been, if we allow ourselves to believe these cautionary tales of protection.

Why do I have to keep going back? Why, and when will it end? Every night, it seems, I am back in the family home of my grandmother’s. Why must I go here, why must I fight these strange battles there, at once happy to be home while also fighting for my survival? Why, why must I go there? I beg myself for the answers, for the truth, as if it is locked up inside of me somehow, I want it to come out – soon, now. Is there a missing piece or is this just the bane of existence? If I come out with a theory, how will I know it is real, and not another strange dream, a fantasy, and not a recollection?

Maybe I can ask my ancestors for clarification. I know that there is another plane, as I have been there. I have had it proven to me on multiple occasions that there is more than this, more than there seems to be. Am I perhaps not dreaming, but visiting another place of shared creation, where the others visit, too? If so, can I call out to them for answers, for clarity, for a sign of the truth? I am in my grandmothers house, that is for sure. I can hear the screen door closing. It shuts lightly, with the silent expulsion of air from the pneumatic hinge as it closes, as to not slam. This luxury was once thought through by someone. It was a choice, it was an improvement on a design we didn’t even know we needed, an amelioration that made everyday life that much more pleasant, as we need not hear an angry slam or clack every time someone went outside. No, it shut gently, with a little double click at the end as it latched – che-clunk. I long for my family. Maybe that is the simple truth. I long for that time when we were all together, safe and sound. That simple little latch. It kept the cold air in in the summertime, kept out the hot and sticky, buggy cloud. I can still see my grandmother in her yardwork clothes, happy, smiling, content. She was always either working or at rest from working. I think all she ever wanted was her family around. Although, late at night, when she was alone and couldn’t sleep, worrying, perhaps she wished that she had wanted more. Perhaps that was the real restlessness, of wondering what might have been if she’d wanted something more. Had she gotten everything she ever wanted, or nothing at all? Did she even dare to dream of more?

My heart is broken when I think of that family, the family I had before the one I have now. It all shattered when she died. It all fell apart. It was the beginning of the end that I am living now. Now, there is complete destruction. The only foundation I ever had was destroyed, completely, and I am not yet healed from it. I live in the rubble, everyday, searching for survivors, searching for the self that I was before the misfortunes of life ravaged the peaceful and bountiful land of my heart and my homeland that was before.

The sun comes out now, and I must go. At least the questions are out, even if the answers are not yet found. I feel I must cry, cry and release, as I don’t think I’ve said this much out loud before. I have been dying for so many years, over 30, almost 35, I would say. It’s been for most of my life, all of my life that I’ve been suffering from this. I’ve chosen over and over again to be angry instead of sad, to be strong instead of vulnerable, fake instead of human. I am tired now, I am ready to let go of this heavy burden, this terrible curse. I have to not shut out the devils that are coming for me. There is only a screened in door and a flimsy latch, it won’t hold, won’t keep them out for long. There are bodies in the safe, in the garage, next to the drinks fridge and the dangling tennis ball on a string that tells you just how far to pull the car in. It’s all there, waiting to be found out. I’ve just got to face it all, face how much I have lost and take the sentence. Enough of the running. I have to find a way to face it so that I can feel it and move back into the present. I am 48 years old, stuck in my childhood memories and longing for my childhood world that has long since disappeared. Yet in my dreams it is still there, calling for me, dragging me home.